A Culinary Genius
by buffysussedcumberbitch
Summary: What happens when Mrs Hudson goes to visit her sister, leaving the boys to cook for themselves? Disaster is the short answer! My first fic, please r and r :)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope as a series of banging and crashing noises filled 221B Baker Street, colourfully accompanied by the sounds of John cursing at some inanimate object. Accustomed to this sort of occurrence, Sherlock sighed and went back to his experiment, waiting for his flatmate to make an appearance.

Sure enough, a few seconds later a very bedraggled John emerged through the door. His face had gone an unflattering shade of beetroot and his clothes were more disorderly than Sherlock had ever had the displeasure of seeing them. And that was saying something.

'Good God, John. Please tell me you haven't gone and invaded Afghanistan again.',

John rolled his eyes. 'Sherlock. If you must know, I've treated a patient with malaria and delivered seven babies. Seven!'

Sherlock sniffed in a superior fashion. 'Didn't know you were an obstetrician.'

Seconds later, as Sherlock tried to remove the blanket that John had thrown at his head, John collapsed onto the chair across from his flatmate. 'Christ, I'm starving.'

'Feel free to go fix yourself something. Mrs Hudson's gone to visit her sister.'

'Bloody hell! And of all the days to do it...'

John trudged forlornly off into the kitchen, but Sherlock heard his weary footsteps stop short after just a few seconds. Definitely not long enough for him to have reached the kitchen.

'SHERLOCK!'

Minutes later John and Sherlock were crouched on the floor picking up pieces of shattered glass and china.

'I can't help it if the hydrocarbons reacted a little more violently than I was expecting!'

'Oh, shut up! You can't even call yourself an adult if you botch an experiment this simple! You completely messed up the kitchen and you couldn't even be bothered to clean up! God, I can see why Mrs Hudson needed this trip away.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond to this scathing criticism, but was silenced by a glare. If looks could kill Afghan insurgents...

'Well, I was going to apologise, but if you feel that way...' he huffed.

Unable to resist the consulting four-year-old, John softened a little.

'Well,' he said, with just a touch of vindication in his voice, 'if you're actually sorry, there is SOMETHING you can help me with...'

'"Healthy chicken and chorizo pie"? How healthy can chorizo be?'

John glowered at Sherlock. 'Shut up. The 'boring teacher' gave me this recipe and I'd prefer if you just stopped talking and started cooking.'

Sherlock peered at the recipe book on the counter.

'Right. I know exactly how to do this.'

'You can cook?' asked John, surprised.

'Who said I needed to be able to cook?'

Dark had fallen on Baker Street. The street lights had gone on and their yellow light streamed through the window as a bus growled past the house. Dimly illuminated on the table were a vast assortment of beakers, boiling tubes, flasks, Bunsen burners and jars of strongly smelling chemicals.

'Sherlock...' came John's voice, 'are you SURE this is a good idea? I mean, do you know what you're doing?...'

'SCIENCE, John! It's the key to everything! If I can use it to react hydrocarbons I can use it to make a pie.'

'Sherlock, your attempt to react hydrocarbons resulted in the destruction of the gas cooker and every piece of crockery within a three-metre radius.'

Sherlock waved his blowtorch in John's face.

'That was science. This is...sophisticated application of common sense and basic chemistry. Pass me the iron filings.'

Reluctantly, John handed over a glass jar full of small fragments of metal.

'Thank you. I've connected the Bunsen burner to the gas outlet so that should be fine. If you could possibly put the casserole dish over the flame? Very good. Now, where's the chicken gone...'

John watched Sherlock pottering around the kitchen looking very much like a young, male, ridiculously high-cheekboned version of Betty Crocker. If Betty Crocker wore safety goggles and a lab coat. And used a blowtorch.

'John! Butane! Now please!'

John sighed, pulled down his goggles and gingerly passed Sherlock a canister of gas.

'Right. Now, I'm going to pour these iron filings onto the flame, and when I do I want you to try and tilt the Bunsen burner towards the beaker of petroleum.'

John took a deep breath and nodded.

Slowly, Sherlock tipped the contents of the jar of filings into the flame of the Bunsen burner. John prayed that his gloves would be strong enough to deflect the glowing red specks falling towards his hands, and carefully directed the shower of burning iron towards the petroleum, prompting it to burst into flames.

'Excellent. Water?'

John reached for the beaker labelled H2O as Sherlock picked up the sodium thiosulphate.

'Sherlock... Please could you possibly explain why on earth we're using sodium thiosulphate and hydrogen peroxide to make a pie? Especially considering that we could just use your blowtorch to heat the bloody chicken if you're so desperate to overcomplicate!'

Sherlock gave John a pitying look.

'The last time I was as bored as I am now I shot a congressman with a paintball gun. I thought you'd approve of this a little more, but if not I can easily go-'

'All right, all right! I don't want to have to go get you out of a cell again. You remember that time at Pentonville Prison? One of the inmates tried to strangle me as I walked past!'

Sherlock didn't look up from pouring the sodium thiosulphate into the beaker of water, and the kitchen was silent apart from the steady drip of liquid. John thought it was too good of a situation to last long. He was right.

"SHERLOCK!'

'John, this is absolutely ridiculous! It was your fault entirely! I can't help it if you couldn't be bothered to read the label on the beaker!'

'If you hadn't INSISTED on doing this is such a bloody stupid, complicated way this never would have happened!'

'I TOLD you you have to read the label carefully!'

'From where I was it looked like H2O! I couldn't tell it was H2S04!'

Sitting on the counter next to the Bunsen burner and the empty basin of petroleum was a miserable-looking container of yellowish liquid, rather resembling rotten milk. It smelled accordingly. The entirety of 221B reeked of sulphur- the result of John's confusion of a beaker of water with a beaker of sulphuric acid.

'Anyway, you're being completely unreasonable! It's just a small accident. Be glad I didn't break the dishwasher. This time.'

'A small- a SMALL accident? My room smells like a box of rotten eggs! I can hear people shouting about it on the street!'

'Well, MY room smells fine, so I assume that your personal hygiene may be contributing to the unpleasant odour in your part of the flat!'

John sulked at him for a minute.

'Sherlock, I don't know about you but this shambles has has not improved the condition of my stomach. It's still empty.'

'Oh God.'

'Seriously! We're going to try this again and this time we're doing it MY way! The sensible way!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'God, you're so boring. All right...'

*********************************  
>Sooooooooooooooooo, my first fic... did it suck? please r and r!<p>

IF ANYONE READS THIS WHO ISN'T EMIBEE OR AWKWARDBANANA AND REVIEWS IT I WILL POST THE NEXT CHAPTER


	2. Chapter 2

_A/n: Hiiii. I haven't updated this fic in months. And yes it is my only one. So I have no excuse for both a) its lateness and b) its dubious quality. I do believe everything I write to be utter shet, so if you feel like it read it, and if you get bored or 'meh'-ish halfway through just cloooose the tab. I got an absolutely awful case of writer's block halfway through and had to rewrite most of it. So. I'll shut up now._

Sherlock peered suspiciously at the large canvas apron lying before him. It was orange, shapeless and printed with the words "King of the Barbecue".  
>'John, I'm hoping that this is some kind of tasteless joke you're making at my expense, and not what you're expecting me to wear.'<br>'Just put the damn thing on, Sherlock.'  
>John emerged from his room resplendent in a crisp, white apron emblazoned with the Cordon Bleu logo and dashed off into the kitchen, where he began frantically pulling things out of the fridge.<br>Sherlock stared at the apron. The apron stared back, rather belligerently. Slowly, he moved his hand towards it. The apron glowered at him. That was the only way to describe the appearance of the luminous orange dye in which the canvas had been saturated. Sherlock considered the possibility that the apron was radioactive. There was a Geiger counter in the bedroom somewhere, he was sure...  
>"SHERLOCK, JUST PUT THE BLOODY APRON ON."<br>Sherlock swiftly decided that an angry John was significantly more hazardous than a radioactive apron and threw it over his neck with an air of martyrdom.

As Sherlock wandered resignedly towards John he paused to take in the vast array of flashy copper cookware jostling for space on the table.  
>'John, I find it hard to believe that you would have gone to the considerable expenditure necessary to purchase these items unless you already had a significant degree of skill in the culinary arts.'<br>'In other words, you're asking if I can cook.'  
>Sherlock nodded grudgingly.<br>'If you wish to express the question in such simplistic terms, yes.'  
>Two can play at this game, thought John.<br>'Well Sherlock, if you require a significant amount of information or data on the degree of skill with which I can heat raw foodstuffs to a temperature that renders them edible whilst adding a pleasurable sensation to the action of their consumption, yes, I CAN cook.'  
>John looked over smugly and was rather piqued to see Sherlock's eyebrow raised so high it was practically camouflaged with his hair.<br>'John...'  
>'Well, I suppose that little speech didn't have quite the effect I was hoping for. Grab a knife.'<br>Sherlock reached for a small steel box with alarming alacrity.  
>'Sherlock, you know as well as I do that it's not appropriate to chop chicken with a ceremonial dagger.'<br>His sous-chef froze, mid-lunge.  
>'Yes it is! It's perfectly sanitary!'<br>'That thing has blood on it!'  
>'It's not blood! Or if it is, it's very sanitary blood.'<br>John sighed.  
>'Lesson one in basic food preparation- you can't use a Sudanese dagger for cutting chicken.'<br>Sherlock gawped at him. Seeing that this concept was clearly too alien for his flatmate to grasp, John decided to compromise.  
>'All right. You can use the dagger-'<br>He was interrupted by the disturbing sight of Sherlock jumping up and down with glee, as happy as a four-year-old on Christmas Day.  
>'-IF-<br>The jumping stopped.  
>'You wash that thing in disinfectant and take the dead flies off the handle.'<br>'But the flies are the best part!'  
>John stood firm.<br>'No flies or no dagger. Your choice.'  
>'But-'<br>'No buts! There's disinfectant by the window if you want it.'  
>Involuntarily, John winced as a fuming Sherlock walked slowly past him to the window, snatched the disinfectant and stalked off.<br>Minutes later he returned, bearing a marginally less savage-looking dagger, and began to ferociously attack the chicken. John placed a pan on the hob, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock as he did so.  
>'All right. Can you pass me the Confit du Canard?'<p>

For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was unable to find the words to comment on what he was seeing.  
>John was dancing around the kitchen, frying chicken in one pan and potatoes in another, reaching for a bottle of white wine and artfully pouring a generous splash of it in with the chicken, then grabbing a rolling pin and vehemently thumping a lump of pastry into the counter. The entire worktop was covered in flour.<br>'Well, I have to say I really wasn't expecting this from you, John.' Sherlock managed to mutter.  
>John scoffed at him from under the microwave.<br>'So much for your deductions, then.'  
>Sherlock edged closer to the hob with horrified fascination written on his face. 'Is that...?'<br>John glanced at him. 'What, the chicken?'  
>Sherlock was peering into the frying pan. 'Is it meant to be...?'<br>John didn't look up from the pastry. 'Stop asking stupid questions, Sherlock.'  
>'Yes, but are you sure it's meant to-'<br>'Have some faith in my cooking abilities for once, maybe?'  
>'John-'<br>'After all, I went along with YOUR stupid idea and we both know how well that turned out.'  
>'JOHN-'<br>'But oh, no, the great Sherlock Holmes knows everything, he's too high and mighty to hearken to the puny beings that surround him...'  
>John paused in his tirade to sniff the air suspiciously and turn around.<br>'Sherlock, do you smell...'  
>His sentence remained unfinished as he was met with the sight of Sherlock gazing mournfully into the frying pan. Or more specifically, at the flames in it.<br>'SHERLOCK!'  
>'Hmm?'<br>The other man looked up absentmindedly from the small inferno before him, then back again, before apparently realizing what was happening and uttering a sting of profomanities.  
>'Don't just stand there swearing, you idiot! Put out!' screeched John.<br>Sherlock nodded frantically and opened the window.  
>'Not the...oh god.'<br>The flames begin to lick higher. John looked at the scorch marks already forming on the wallpaper and couldn't help thinking of how pleased Mrs Hudson would be when she got back.  
>'Fire blanket! Get the fire blanket!'<br>Sherlock swung in a hapless circle.  
>'Where is it?'<br>John could only look on in horror as the purple silk of Sherlock's sleeve hovered precariously above the fire for a moment before dropping a into it.  
>'John?'<br>He pushed past the oblivious detective and grabbed the fire blanket out of the cupboard before throwing it over the pan.  
>'STOPDROPROLL!' he shouted over his shoulder.<br>'WHAT?'  
>'I SAID STOP, DROP-'<br>Sherlock was gazing intently at the flames engulfing his arm.  
>'ROLL!'<br>John gave up all hope and leapt on the other man, who emitted a startled yelp. The two began rolling around the floor as John began to furiously beat at the sleeve, which was now blazing merrily. In desperation he grabbed the end of it and pulled as hard as he could. There was a cracking sound as about half of Sherlock's shirt as well as a good part of that bloody apron came away in his hand. John threw the pile into the corner with a shriek and collapsed onto Sherlock.  
>'John?'<br>'Hnnnn.'  
>'John.'<br>The addressee decided that he was entitled to a moment's rest and recuperation and did not respond.  
>'John? John, you might want to get up. John. JOHN. John, would you please listen to me-'<br>There was a horribly familiar snigger. John felt the blood drain from his face.  
>'Oh, don't mind me.' said Mycroft Holmes from the doorway.<p>

_I warned you that it would suck. Depending on how much hate I get for this chapter I may write another. Or I may not. If I continue this fic it will involve Mycroft and probably all the other characters at some point acting out my cookery/baking headcanons. I don't even know any more. Leave me a review if you're not too disgusted.  
>A<em> 


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